


An Unlikely Arrangement

by callipygian



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF My Unit | Byleth, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Redemption, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28167807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callipygian/pseuds/callipygian
Summary: “The king? Of Faerghus? Don’t tell me you don’t know.” Felix gapes at him, as if Byleth’s intelligence is steadily declining in his estimation.“They didn’t tell me,” Byleth says, his head spinning. “They didn’t tell me that I would be marrying the king.”--A tale of political intrigue, betrayal, and an arranged marriage with the potential to turn the tides of a war.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	An Unlikely Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about Byleth and Dimitri, and how their relationship would have been different (and also the same) if they had met at a different time, in a different context. The main points of canon divergence in this story are:
> 
> 1) Byleth was never a professor. He and Jeralt returned to Garreg Mach through other means. He knows Rhea, Seteth, Catherine, etc. but has little to no knowledge of other characters.
> 
> 2) Everyone is aged up. Think post-time skip ages, except that Byleth didn't go to sleep for five years. 
> 
> 3) Byleth doesn't have access to Sothis's powers, at least the beginning of the story. He also doesn't really know who Sothis is.
> 
> Other things that differ from canon are just liberties that I've taken with worldbuilding. Overall, Fire Emblem kicked my butt over quarantine and I love everyone so much. Thanks for reading and let me know what you think <3

"A marriage?" Byleth says, raising his eyebrows. Despite his father’s incessant teasing regarding his lack of emotion, he cannot keep a hint of incredulity from coloring his words. “Is – is that wise, at this time?”

Rhea smiles serenely. With her toned-down night robes and flowing green locks, she strikes an ethereal figure.

“I understand your reservations completely, dear Byleth,” Rhea says, her face luminescent under the soft moonlight. “Five long years of bloodshed… The people are weary. I have faith that the Goddess will continue to smile benevolently upon us, but a union between the Church and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus… it would stir up newfound faith among the believers, and perhaps hasten the return of peace to this desecrated land.”

Byleth considers this. Though the Church of Seiros and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus share a common enemy in the Adrestian Empire, they have been fighting under two banners. Splitting the forces has made weakened both, allowing Emperor Edelgard to methodically pick apart their realms and capture critical strongholds. Strategically, it makes sense to unite. Still, one question remains.

“Why me?” he says, bluntly. He has never been one for choosing his words carefully. Byleth is principally a strategist and a warrior, and the idea of twiddling his thumbs in a castle, gorging himself on rich food, while his father and friends fight for their lives leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Rhea’s eyes gleam. “You are the future of the Church. Your presence in Faerghus will strike fear in the hearts of our enemies.”

Byleth frowns at this cryptic message. He’s hardly the future of the Church; that title would be better bestowed on Seteth, or even Flayn. Despite this, Byleth is first and foremost a soldier – and he can be one now too, if Rhea thinks it necessary. Though it seems that Rhea would rather he be a wilting maiden, standing guard to the palace of some hallowed Faerghus lord.

“I will do this, for you,” he says, steeling himself.

It is the least he can do for Rhea. For the past few years, Byleth has watched her throw herself into the war effort with reckless abandon, pouring over reports and messages from all corners of the Church’s reach, listening to the woes of the locals with the patience of a saint. And most of all, she had given Byleth a home – the sanctuary of Garreg Mach that Byleth had grown to love.

“Wonderful.” Rhea beams, tension leaving her shoulders with a rustle of fabric. “I will send word immediately. Representatives from Faerghus will be here within a fortnight to retrieve you. Please take the time to gather whatever you may need and bid farewell to your father.”

 _Oh, Goddess,_ Byleth thinks. _Father._ If he had a heartbeat, it surely would have stopped in dismay. The idea of telling his father was somehow more invoking of displeasure than the idea of the marriage itself.

No matter. Jeralt, too, was a soldier. He would, in time, see the strategic importance of the move. Or so Byleth hoped. As usual, his hopes landed far from the cruel grasp of reality.

* * *

“ _Married?”_ Jeralt thundered, standing up abruptly and looking as though he wanted to draw his weapon at the dinner table. “Says who?”

“Sit down, father.” Byleth says with a sigh, hoping that the prized set of porcelain tableware, acquired back in his mercenary days from a grateful Alliance merchant, makes it through the conversation unscathed. Jeralt, of course, remains standing. If anything, the look on his face darkens. “If it matters – it was Rhea’s idea. But it is clear that this is a smart move, if we are to end the war soon.”

“Oh, _fuck_ the war.” Jeralt slams his hands on the table with a thud. Byleth’s gaze is drawn involuntarily to his father’s hands, calloused and covered with decades worth of scars. “Kid – you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. And you especially don’t have to get married. Even if the fucking Archbishop says so.”

“I know that. I want to do this.” Byleth looks at his father straight in the eyes, wills him to see the resolve in his chest. The end of needless suffering and bloodshed – Byleth will do anything to make sure that happens, give himself up a thousand times if necessary. The unification between the Church and Faerghus is vital. Significant in its ability to save countless lives from an early demise.

This task can only be left to Byleth. As the commander of the Knights of Seiros, Jeralt is indispensable. Seteth is Rhea’s right-hand man, helping her to manage the mountain of administrative tasks awaiting the head of the Church. Flayn is much too young. Byleth is a strong warrior, yes, but there are many other strong warriors in Rhea’s forces –Catherine, Shamir, and Alois, to name a few.

His father stares back at him, eyes stormy. Seconds pass. Then minutes. In the background, one of his father’s men coughs and slinks uncomfortably towards the door, as if seeking the right time to escape.

Finally, his father deflates. Kerosene is scarce during this time of need, and the light in the dining hall is dim, making Jeralt seem smaller than Byleth can remember ever seeing him. A deep weariness settles into the curve of his back, the downcast edges of his mouth, the drop of his shoulders.

“Kid…” Jeralt puts his head in his hands, like he does when he has a splitting headache. “I don’t know what to say, except that I need a fucking drink.”

Byleth’s mouth twitches. Out of the storms of his father’s many moods, this one he knows how to weather. Wordlessly, he gets up, fingering a coin out of his pocket. The head chef has a secret stash of ale in the backroom, kept safe through years of war, but Byleth has extensive practice on getting her to bend the rules.

In his hurry to leave, Byleth misses the next words out of his father’s mouth.

“I’ve failed you, kid.” Jeralt sighs, casting his eyes skyward. “Sitri knows I have.” But his lament is snatched away by the wind, to be heard only by the Goddess herself.

* * *

In his last few weeks at Garreg Mach, Byleth tries to slow down time as much as he can. He visits his childhood haunts: the fishing pond, where he spent lazy summer days with his father; the greenhouse, full to the brim with his favorite flowers; the graveyard where his mother is buried. He says his goodbyes to the friends he has made over the years. Seteth and Flayn, the cheery gatekeeper, and the great variety of merchants who never failed to regale him with their tales of adventure and extravagance. He tries not to count the days until he will have to leave.

He had come to Garreg Mach with only his sword and the clothes on his back. It makes the sheer number of possessions that he has amassed over the years an even greater surprise. Byleth packs away a verifiable horde of clothes, a small ring from Flayn, a set of throwing knives from his father.

Despite his best efforts, the time comes, heralded by another visit from Rhea.

“Byleth, have I caught you at an inopportune time?” she says. Her tone is gentle, but Byleth is still startled enough to drop the novel he had been reading.

“No, Archbishop Rhea.” He bends over to pick up the novel, a primer on executing pincer attacks, and sets it gingerly on his desk.

“That is most fortunate. The Faerghus emissaries will be at our gates any moment now.” Her green eyes hold an expression that he cannot decipher. “We will walk there together, but before that, I wanted to see if there is anything else you need from me.”

Byleth shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

Rhea continues, her voice mournful. “I regret that things could not be done differently, dear Byleth. The loss of you will be great, but it is my sincere hope that we will be rewarded for our sacrifices in due time.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so in typical Byleth fashion, he says nothing.

“Archbishop!” A knight bursts into view with a cacophony of clanking armor. “Visitors from Faerghus at the gates.”

“Thank you for letting us know,” Rhea says. She turns back to Byleth. “The time has come. May the Goddess smile upon you for your charity and sacrifice.”

Out of nowhere, Byleth gets the urge to laugh. Everyone – his father, Rhea – seems to be acting as though he is about to head to some pivotal battle, where the preservation of his life is uncertain, instead of to a marriage hall. An unpleasant thought enters his head. _A marriage hall, and subsequently a marriage bed._

The prospect of rolling around in silk sheets with some plump, balding noble, pretending to enjoy himself for the sake of the union, makes Byleth’s stomach turn. Maybe he’ll do what the heroines in Manuela’s torrid romance novels would do, when faced with an undesired tryst – lie back and think of Fódlan. But he thinks it more likely that he will reach for his sword instead.

* * *

Instead of leading him to the gates, Rhea takes him to the stables first.

“Since we cannot spare your father's command from the frontlines, I thought it would be best if you could take another familiar face with you. Faerghus, I have heard, is a cold place. And an even colder one without a friend to pass the time.”

Byleth brightens. A knight turns the corner, holding the reins of a magnificent, black steed with a white star on her forehead. A familiar face.

Byleth remembers a time when he and his father had been hired to rescue some wretched son of an Empire noble, held ransom because of his importance to preserving the line, and his Crest. They found him at last, shivering pathetically in the back of a horse stall, stinking of fear.

“Get up,” Jeralt had said roughly, hauling the whimpering noble to his feet. It had been annoying to find him – several hours of trudging through wet mud, picking off the occasional bandit unlucky enough to wind up in the path of an irritable Jeralt.

But more importantly, they had found a black filly in the stall next to the noble’s son, abandoned by the fleeing bandits. She was in poor health, too young to ride, and had been left to the wolves.

She belonged to no one. She was of no value to anyone. She was _perfect._ Byleth begged his father to let him keep her, and the rest was history.

“Nyx,” he says, taking the reins from the knight. As if spurred by muscle memory, he pats her nose, brushes his hand along her sleek mane, feels for aches and pains along her chest and back. She knickers softly, puffs warm breath against his face.

“Thank you, Rhea.” He is surprised to find that he means it.

“Mention nothing of it,” Rhea says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

They walk in silence, and as they near Garreg Mach’s gates, Byleth’s apprehension grows. If the Faerghus noble doesn’t like him, is unsettled by his expressionless face like so many have been, the shaky union between the Church and Faerghus will dissolve. Rhea’s hopes will have been for naught, and the war will go on for years or even decades to come, until both sides have rendered the very earth to bits.

Byleth shakes his head. He cannot – _will not_ – let that happen. No matter how unpleasant his future partner is. They approach the gates, and Byleth can make out two figures – the gatekeeper, and his father.

The gatekeeper salutes Rhea and then Byleth with unparalleled eagerness. “Stay safe out there, Byleth!” he chirps, and with an ominous groan, the gates open to the visitors from Faerghus.

Byleth’s first impression of the Faerghus procession is that they are very large. And smelly. But that is to be expected; the capital of Faerghus is more than a week’s travel from Garreg Mach, or half a week of hard riding. There are about four of them, on horseback, covered head to toe in heavy furs. He studies their faces, and to his relief, they are all roughly his age. He wonders errantly if he is to marry one of them. Doubtful. A lord of Faerghus would hardly brave the difficult journey, preferring to send his lackeys instead.

The largest and most imposing of the group dismounts and gives Rhea a polite bow. “Apologies for the delay, Archbishop. We encountered some trouble on the road.”

Rhea’s face adopts a look of concern. “The roads to Garreg Mach have become less and less safe in recent years. The war has placed these lands in great turmoil. I trust that all in your party are uninjured?”

The man nods solemnly. “Yes, the same is true in Faerghus. The bandits run rampant in the villages and on the roads, terrorizing the people.” Byleth looks over him with a curious eye. He strikes an imposing figure, with broad shoulders, an angular jawline, tanned skin, and a scarred face.

“My apologies, I have yet to introduce myself,” he says with another curt bow, breaking Byleth out of his reverie. “I am Dedue of Duscur, knight of Faerghus and assistant to the king.” He is the human equivalent of a moving mountain.

Duscur… Of the little history that Hanneman was able to hammer into his skull, that is, before Hanneman defected to the Empire, Byleth recalls hearing of a massacre. The crime of regicide paid for in the genocide of an entire people. Men, women, and children. Considering the bloody history between the crown and Duscur, it is certainly strange that a man of that region should hold such a pivotal position in Faerghus’s court.

“Byleth,” Rhea says, and four sets of curious eyes snap to his face. “Travel safely, my child, and know that we will see each other soon.”

He nods, hand clenching around the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. A nervous tick from his teenage years that he yet to shake off. In a swift, practiced moment, he places his heel in Nyx’s stirrup and slides into the leather saddle on her back. Dedue does the same, his stallion a pale gray and equally as imposing of a figure as its rider.

Jeralt, breaking his silence, walks up to Byleth, placing a hand on Nyx’s flank. “Be careful, kid. Keep your eyes and ears open. Royal courts are different, politics and the like. I’ll be there when I can.”

He nods and takes his father’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I will, father.”

Jeralt presses something in his hand. A leather pouch, containing something cold and hard. “Take this. I want you to have it. It was your mother’s.”

Byleth’s throat is tight. “Father, I –” He finds himself unable to form words.

“It’s alright.” Jeralt gives him an understanding smile. He waves Byleth off and walks away, as if the exchange had drained what little energy he had left.

With little other fanfare, they depart.

The winters of Fódlan are cold, even as far south as Garreg Mach. Byleth draws his cloak tighter against himself to shield himself from the icy air. They ride in silence, the howling wind drowning out all but the gentle clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves meeting the dirt path.

Occasionally, they meet a haggard villager on the outskirts of the monastery, carrying a basket of root vegetables from the winter stores. The war has been tough on Rhea and his father, but infinitely more so for the people. There has been starvation, crime, and death in these lands. Byleth grips the reins tighter. It only strengthens his resolve for this task, for what must be done to achieve peace.

Gazing at the stars, he lets his mind wander. Will Faerghus be colder still? He has heard that the northern territories are covered with a blanket of snow, and that they possess a frigid sort of beauty. Will there be sufficient training grounds? It would not do to let his swordsmanship grow rusty. Will he be able to fight on the frontlines?

After several hours in the darkness, they spot a cluster of twinkling lights in the distance. Dedue, from his position at the front of the party, lets his stallion fall back to walk in step with Byleth.

“My liege, a village lies ahead. We can stop for the night and prepare for tomorrow’s ride.”

Byleth nods. _My liege._ How strange. He is a commoner, a mercenary, and always has been one. But he supposes that will soon come to an end.

They enter the village. A woman and her child flee at the sight of them, hastily gathering their skirts and slamming the door to their home. Byleth knows it is not from a lack of hospitality. This area has been subject to all flavors of criminals, as have most villages along major roads.

There is a small, derelict inn in the corner of the village square that looks like it has seen better days. Byleth dismounts and ties Nyx’s reins to a post.

“You’re smaller than I thought you would be.” The voice is blunt and haughty, belonging to a lean man with locks of blue hair, a rapier at his waist.

“Felix!” A woman interrupts him, reproach in her eyes. “Forgive him, he does not mean to be rude,” she says to Byleth, kindly. “He only means that you are somewhat shorter than our lord.”

“But not so bad looking,” says a man with red hair, the last in the group to speak. His eyes twinkle with mirth. “Felix here wagered that you would have warts, or perhaps a limp. I have to confess that I am glad neither seems to be true.”

Felix huffs, but it doesn’t sound angry. “It was said in jest, Sylvain.”

“Oh, I’m sure. You’ve always been the _jesting_ type.” Sylvain says, leering at his friend. Their bickering makes Byleth relax. It reminds him of his father’s mercenaries, poking fun at each other on long journeys.

It is at this moment that Dedue returns, three keys in his hand. “The innkeeper has only three usable rooms. I will share with Ingrid, and Felix with Sylvain.”

“Dedue,” Sylvain says, eyebrows waggling. “I didn’t think you had it in you, you sly bastard. I have to say that I’m proud. You’ve grown.”

Dedue’s stony expression betrays nothing, but Ingrid gives Sylvain a hard slap on the arm, making him wince. “That’s enough out of you. Your incessant joking tires me more than you know, Sylvain. Let’s head in.”

The inn is better kept on the inside. The innkeeper, a homely, stout woman with a head of curly hair fusses over them, clearly not used to having quite so many visitors of such important stature. She gathers their coats and seats them at her family’s dining table, despite their protests, and dishes out heaps of fish stew.

“Many thanks,” Dedue says, inclining his head. His voice is deep and gravelly.

“So,” Sylvain says with a drawl, pointing his spoon at Byleth. “You’re Byleth. Son of Jeralt the Bladebreaker?”

“Yes.” He gets the feeling that Sylvain is asking something else but lacks the emotional aptitude to guess what he wants to know.

Sylvain whistles. “You’re famous. The Ashen Demon? Is it true that you took down a legion of Empire soldiers singlehandedly?”

Byleth frowns. “Yes.” It is hardly something to boast about. He had been caught unawares by a formidable group of Empire soldiers, about fifty leagues out from Garreg Mach, too far for reinforcements. It was a sloppy move on his part. He should have been more careful. A monastery servant had given a shrill scream when he had finally returned to the entrance hall, beleaguered, aching, and covered in blood.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Ingrid says between bites of food. “It is a match well struck.”

Felix snorts. “Reputation isn’t everything. He won’t last a fortnight with the boar.”

“The boar?” Byleth says, brow furrowing. Perhaps this is some strange Faerghus tradition, to throw him in a pit with a wild animal and have him prove his strength. He has heard of similar traditions, albeit only in the societies of ancient lore.

“Don’t mind him,” Ingrid mumbles, spoon scraping at the bottom of her bowl. “It is a silly nickname for our King Dimitri.”

“You would not think it silly if you had seen what I have,” Felix says darkly.

At this, Byleth’s confusion grows. “Dimitri?”

“The king? Of Faerghus? Don’t tell me you don’t know.” Felix gapes at him, as if Byleth’s intelligence is steadily declining in his estimation.

“They didn’t tell me,” Byleth says, his head spinning. “They didn’t tell me that I would be marrying the king.”

Ingrid and Sylvain exchange a look. Finally, she breaks the silence.

“Well… the entire Kingdom knows that you are to be wed to King Dimitri,” she says carefully, her expression troubled. “It would greatly displease me if you were to be swindled into this union.”

Byleth shakes his head. “That is not the case. I am doing this voluntarily. I am only saying that, in conversations with the Archbishop, the subject of who I was to marry did not come up.”

Ingrid relaxes, but only slightly. “Regardless, I cannot let you go to Dimitri like this, in good conscience. Please let me know if you have any questions about our King, or the Kingdom.”

“Or me!” Sylvain shoots him a cheeky grin. “I have to make sure that Ingrid gives you a factual account, after all. Knowing her, she’ll leave out _all_ the important details.” His tone is suggestive. Byleth almost blushes.

“I will,” Byleth says gratefully. “Thank you.”

They finish their meal in a more companionable silence. Sylvain yawns exaggeratedly. “Man, I’m beat. C’mon Felix, let’s head upstairs.”

Felix gets up wordlessly. Dedue hands him a key. They climb the rickety stairs together, bickering voices carrying throughout the inn.

Dedue hands Byleth a key as well. “We leave at dawn tomorrow. Please get some rest.”

Byleth half stumbles upstairs, mind numb, and unlocks the door to his room. It is a humble space – a square room with a narrow bed in the corner, and rough linen sheets – but Byleth has slept in far worse accommodations. He collapses on the bed and falls into a fitful sleep, dreaming of kings, and courts, and deadly lies of omission.

* * *

“Wake up!” The voice of a girl. Byleth rolls onto his side, half-asleep. He still must be dreaming.

“Do not ignore me, indolent child!” the girl says angrily, interrupting his slumber once again. “It is dawn, and your new friends await.”

He shoots up, too quickly. The room is bright, illuminated by the orange rays of the sunrise. We leave at dawn, Dedue had said.

“Fuck,” Byleth says, running a hand through his hair. He gathers his thoughts and heads downstairs. Dedue is awake, as is Ingrid, but thankfully Felix and Sylvain are still nowhere to be seen.

“Morning!” Ingrid says, mouth full. Byleth wonders if all women of Faerghus have such a healthy appetite. “Porridge?” she offers.

He accepts, knowing that he will need his strength for the journey ahead. From Ingrid, he finds out several facts. First, they will be heading to the capital city of Fhirdiad, a cold and rugged place, but a magnificent city, nonetheless. Ingrid, eyeing his clothing and finding it lacking, promises to take him shopping for more suitable wear. Second, the people of Faerghus, and particularly Fhirdiad, are extremely pious, and will welcome his presence in the city, as a representative of the Church. Third, she tells him to be careful around Cornelia and any members of the court who call her an ally.

Byleth finds that he likes her – her straightforward manner of speech, sharp tongue, and steely tongue. Dedue, he likes as well. He is a man of few words, but he is of honest mind and heart; he can see why King Dimitri would want to keep the company of such a man, though he is from Duscur.

Roughly half an hour later, Felix and Sylvain stumble down the steps, their clambering feet and voices emitting a cacophony of noise.

“About time.” Ingrid stands, hand on her hip. “And you call yourselves knights of Faerghus. Disgraceful.” She is smiling.

“Felix kept me up all night with his incessant snoring,” Sylvain complains. “Call yourself lucky that you got to share a room with Dedue. I bet he hardly makes a sound.”

Felix scowls, and opens his mouth to retort before Ingrid cuts him off.

“No matter. Dedue is outside, preparing your steeds. We’ll leave in ten.”

And so, they leave the village for Fhirdiad, following a narrow pass through the mountain range along the border of Garreg Mach’s outskirts and Faerghus. The weather here becomes colder still, and though Byleth has many more questions to ask, his travelling companions retreat into themselves, preferring to hide behind their furs.

It is not until they reach the rocky expanses of the Tailtean Plains that they become more forthcoming.

“What is the king like?” he asks Sylvain, feeling more and more like a young schoolgirl, pining after a distant love interest.

“Dimitri?” Sylvain’s face becomes contemplative. “Well, I guess you could say he’s driven. He’s always been that way. Of course,” a playful smile dancing across his lips, “I would say he’s driven by entirely the wrong things. Unable to appreciate the finer things in life, Dimitri is, like the company of a beautiful woman. Or man.”

“Be careful around him,” Felix says. Byleth starts, unaware that Felix was listening to his conversation. “I have known Dimitri since childhood. He is not the man that he once was.” 

His face twists, and he is about to elaborate when Dedue suddenly stops, bringing the group to a screeching halt. From his belt, he retrieves a massive, steel axe with a sturdy oak handle.

“Bandits ahead.” Dedue looks forward, toward a dark thicket. Byleth peers into the wooded area and sees vague hints of movement, too deliberate and quick to be that of an animal.

“We’ll protect you, Byleth,” Ingrid says, lance in hand. “Don’t worry.”

Byleth raises his eyebrows. He can handle himself against some bandits, but he appreciates the sentiment.

“Behind you,” a girl’s voice says sleepily. He whips around, just in time for an arrow to streak past him, so close that it nicks his ear.

“We’re being flanked. Archers,” he bites out. Before the others can react, he pulls on the reins and turns Nyx around to follow the path of the arrow.

 _There you are,_ Byleth says, spotting a group of archers hiding behind some boulders. They look like peasants, not bandits – they wield shoddy, homemade bows and wear tattered, brown clothing. Hardly the dress of seasoned thieves.

No matter who they are. Their hostility is apparent. Byleth draws the Sword of the Creator, and with a grunt of exertion, launches it forward bodily. It extends and contorts in the air, glowing with power, and piercing the nearest archer through the chest.

 _0.75 seconds until they begin to scatter_ , he thinks, spurring Nyx forward. _Most likely path of escape is the thicket 52 degrees southwest, where they can use the terrain and hide their footsteps by following the river._

He moves to block their path. Before they can even yell in fright, Byleth is upon them, his sword carving a deadly path of carnage. Before long, there are only two left: a middle-aged man and a boy of no more than fourteen years, trembling with adrenaline and absolute terror.

Dismounting, he hauls the older man up by his collar. “Who are you? What is your purpose in coming here?”

“P-please,” the boy gasps, falling to his knees. “Let him go.”

The man spits in Byleth’s face. “Monster. Just like your king.” He reaches into the folds of his tunic and pulls out a dagger, swiping clumsily at Byleth’s chest.

Byleth avoids this by knocking the dagger away with his free hand and using the force of the man’s exertion against him, heaving him over his shoulder. He crashes into the rocky earth and lies there on his back, groaning.

“What do you mean by that? Monster?” he says, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

The boy speaks up, with surprising vitriol. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know. He killed my brother, Dimitri did. In the Battle of Enbarr… If he wanted peace, he would have surrendered long ago. But he won’t, because he doesn’t care about the lives of his people – our lives.”

“He’s gone mad,” the older man coughs. “My son… how many more lives will be thrown away for the delusions of a mad king?”

Interesting. He recalls hearing of the Battle of Enbarr from his father. In the early days of the war, Dimitri led the troops of Faerghus on a direct path to Enbarr, calling for the Emperor’s head. He made no attempt to hide the movement of his troops. Edelgard, easily anticipating his moves, ambushed his troops along the way, raining fiery arrows upon Faerghus’s soldiers. They had been forced to beat a hasty retreat. The losses were great, and Fhirdiad had lost traction in the war against the Empire since.

Byleth tilts his head towards the thicket. “Go now, before my friends find you.”

The father and son don’t linger to realize that possibility. They turn tail and run, leaving their crude weaponry behind.

Byleth sighs and pockets the man’s dagger thoughtfully. A mad king. Despite the coming and goings of merchants through Garreg Mach, such rumors had not breached the monastery walls. He hopes, for his own sake, that it is just a rumor. But he has a suspicion that there is an element of truth to it, as with most rumors. It would certainly explain why Faerghus, despite its pious populace, had yet to ally with the Church. It would explain why its military forces spent much of its time engaging in foolhardy, and often failed, attacks against the Empire.

He shakes the blood off his sword and returns it to its sheath. Gripping Nyx’s mane, he heaves himself into her saddle and ushers her forward. When he reunites with the others, they have just finished dispatching the rest of the villagers. The ones who haven’t fled already, at least. Other than a few minor scratches, everyone looks no worse for the wear.

“That’s some sword.” There is an unreadable look in Felix’s eye. As if it is a conscious being, the hilt of Byleth’s sword glows in response. He stares Byleth down, searching his face.

“You’re strong,” he says finally. “When we get to Fhirdiad, spar with me.”

It sounds more like a demand than a request.

Byleth makes a pensive noise. There is something else on his mind. “Our attackers… they weren’t bandits, they were villagers. They mentioned something about the Battle of Enbarr, and a mad king.”

Felix’s face clouds over. His mouth tightens. “I meant to tell you this earlier. Dimitri is not a popular king. He –”

“Felix.” Ingrid looks over uneasily. She is gripping her lance with unusual fervor, knuckles tight. “Mind yourself.”

Felix shakes his head violently. “He deserves to know the truth about the man he is to marry, Ingrid. You, of all people, should know that.”

For reasons beyond Byleth’s understanding, Ingrid appears properly chastised and ceases her protest.

“As I was saying, Dimitri is not a popular king. Some would say he is a cruel king. A heartless king. More of an unfeeling beast than a man. He wasn’t always this way. His parents died in Duscur many years ago… and my brother.” Felix laughs mirthlessly. “But after Edelgard’s betrayal, something changed. He became consumed by revenge, and nowadays struggles to think of anything else. We lost more than the peace with the Empire that day; we lost our king, and our friend.”

A minute passes in mournful silence. They all look pained, even Sylvain, who seems to avoid the melancholier emotions with the aptness of an escape artist.

“Felix does not mince words,” Dedue says, breaking the quiet, “but I cannot deny that he speaks the truth. We would not blame you if you were to turn back toward Garreg Mach.”

His deep voice is resigned in its certainty of Byleth’s departure. In fact, the others seem to share his sentiment, if Byleth is accurately interpreting the dispirited expressions on their faces.

He thinks of the man and his son from earlier, their acidic hatred of the king masking a deeper, entrenched sorrow. He thinks of Felix and Sylvain and Ingrid – the fragile moments of laughter they share, almost guilty in their brevity, as if they do not dare to laugh when so many others are suffering. He thinks of the war-torn villages they have passed, covered by shrouds of perpetual grief.

When the war first started and countless wounded knights flooded into Garreg Mach, Byleth would stay in the infirmary, day after day, until finally Jeralt found him sprawled over a desk, passed out from exhaustion. He was but a rudimentary healer, but Byleth always went where he was needed most.

“No, I will continue on with you.” He looks straight ahead at the setting sun, which casts a warmer light over the plains. A soft, even hopeful, glow. He knows where he is needed now, and it fills him with a blazing purpose. “To Fhirdiad.”

Felix opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “You’re sure?”

Byleth looks at him head on. “Yes.”

Shrugging, Felix says, “if you say so,” with a sort of grudging respect that makes Byleth smile.

He draws Nyx’s reins into his hands. “Lead on.”

They continue on. The events of the day had given Byleth much to consider. When he gets to Fhirdiad, he will decide what is needed of him. If it is necessary, Byleth will marry King Dimitri, mad as he may be. And if it will bring peace to Fódlan, Byleth will not hesitate to kill him.

There are many mysteries to unravel in the days to come, but of this he is sure.


End file.
